Dialogues
by pouncepounce
Summary: Command John T. Shepard tells the story of his life, right from the moment of his birth. The peaks and lows, the joys and the atrocities. College, the SR1, his rebirth, Cerberus and the bludgeoning that is the Reaper War, all is recounted. M!ShepxAsh at first, then M!ShepxJack later on.


At 11:54 GST on April 11, 2154 in the starboard medical bay of the SSV Hastings, surrounded by a nurse, a doctor and, as mother recalls, an ecstatic father, I, John T. Shepard, was born unto this world, wailing and flailing. Apparently, I had come out legs first, as if begging to remain within the warm sanctuary of the womb. Alas, that was not meant to be.

My mother, Hannah, that is, Staff Commander Hannah Shepard of the Systems Alliance Navy, or just _mommy_ to the child-me, was married to her work, spending most of her time boat bound. I hear she was exceptional. Her secondary partner, human husband and her shore leave tryst, my father, William, Bill or Billy, was also in the Navy, although, being weak and lanky, he wasn't the tough-as-nails-with-boots-on-the-ground type like mother was; he was the Chief Engineer aboard the Hastings, less grease monkey, more lab coat R&D. I _know_ he was exceptional, firsthand.

With my birth came some serious complications, completely unrelated to health (I was a fit young boy) - one couldn't raise a toddler aboard a military ship. So, father ended up switching over to the private sector, so that little Johnnie could become big John unperturbed and unharmed. He was a talented man, and also a curious man, so we moved from station to station and planet to planet every few years as he chased the next _big thing_ in, yes, you guessed it, military R&D. Naturally, I began to arouse a curiosity of my own toward _that_ type of thing, and, with the perfect mentor at my _disposal_ , I flourished.

On occasion, mother would come home, a pleasant surprise for me - a carefully coordinated ordeal between father and her; big shot Alliance officers didn't get much leave. As mentioned, she was a star, as I had found out in my teenage years during some _private_ extranet sessions late at night, forced to resort to such methods of finding out about my own mother because she spoke so little of her work. By now, I know that this is commonplace among _our kind of people_ , of course – that is, those of us who have seen what man can do to man, or in the general case, what a sentient can do to another.

Putting all of that aside for now (the anguish, the horrors, the sleepless nights, they come later), when mother returned home, it was a special event of sorts; lunch would be a picnic atop the artificial grassy fields of whatever station we were on, maybe we saw a vid at the local cinema, mother would buy me ice cream on the way home, father would 'make' his specialty 'Canadian-style' steak for dinner, which I would always leave a little left over because of the taste and also from being still partially full from the triple scoop mommy bought me, and then we'd play a board game or two, or even discuss current affairs (little Johnnie showing off to his mother about how much he knew about cutting edge quantum communications protocols).

But the highlight of the night was after all that, once father had perhaps had one too many beers - he couldn't finish a six pack on a good night - and dosed off to sleep still sitting on the couch, mother would carry me to bed and we would chat for some amount of time. Usually, always, it ended up with me regaling her with fantastical fantasies, the space adventures I had conjured up in my head, a daydreamer, how I would swoop in to save the day when my friends were in a pinch. She would smile and be enthralled by my tales, of course, and now I wonder if it was because I reminded her of a young Hannah; perhaps I get my penchant for daydreaming from her.

I started school when I was five years old, attending whichever institution was the best out of the pool that was available on the station we were currently aboard. In terms of content, it was pure drudgery – in terms of formative experiences, however, every day was rich indeed. A particularly fond memory from when I was most likely still in first grade, although I cannot be certain – I'd given a girl some candy, as a token of my appreciation for her (clumsy Johnnie knowing precious little about anything related to _this_ ), a special candy that I had saved up for doing chores around the house. Brittaney, I think her name was, took the toffee, moulded in the shape of a flower – yes, a romantic – but said she _didn't want a boyfriend_. I'm unsure if either of us even grasped the concept of any of the words flowing so smoothly, or so we thought, from our mouths. I wonder if she's doing well these days.

At the age of thirteen, I was sent off to a highly selective preparatory school (just one of the perks of having a highly paid tech guru father and a superstar mom, or a mom who worked for _and_ was in the good books of _real superstars,_ like Admiral Hackett), Redbridge Academy on the US east coast, founded in 2099 and designed to prepare students for military life. Father and mother were both Alliance Navy, and I never objected, so it was always expected, unspoken but expected, that I would join one day too; the Army was mostly earthbound, which meant little to no _adventure_ (unattractive for the adventure hungry Johnnie), and the Alliance didn't even have an air force in the age of space warfare, so the Navy it was. Bright eyed, eager and keen to learn, but most of all to make my mark in the galaxy, I entered Redbridge. My mother's athleticism and my father's brains, and, of course, my own personal drive, all carried me well throughout. For the first time in my life I was in one place for more than a year or two, and so I made some close friends, naturally, finally, gladly.

We were a tight knit bunch of three. First, there was Jimmy, a sporty young man with a roguish charm, a car fanatic (he'd saved up over the summer for his very own street approved mod-heavy monstrosity); incidentally, he liked his girls as he liked his cars – fast and well oiled. Bob was second, the bookish type, more comfortable in his dorm reading Plato and Aristotle than anything else, and with surprising wit – he spoke little, but when he did, it was always a laugh riot. Of course, third was little old me.

Then there was Jessica, who, which I only admit to myself here and now, looked very similar to Ash, with her black hair tied up in a neat little bun, lean physique and country-girl-tanned skin (she was a Texan - not sure if that counts as a _country girl_ ).

Jessica was my first _partner_ , naturally, finally, gladly; one day the seventeen-year-old me mustered up the courage to give her a flower (a real one this time, although I forget which kind). For a while it was fun (little Johnnie was having a blast – or two – many times a week), but we didn't last long; obvious in hindsight, when the only things I remember about her are strictly physical in nature. I wonder what her favourite colour was.

Eventually, graduation time came along, and we all went our separate ways. Jimmy joined the Alliance as an enlist (not enough brains to be officer material, and he wanted to be an NCO anyway – the 'real badasses' according to him). KIA in 2173 on a Traverse patrol mission gone south. Bob was doing fine, and still is, I hope; last I heard of him was when he was protesting the Alliance's attack on Torfan – the man probably had a point.

As for myself, I topped the class and was offered a fully funded scholarship to the Alliance Marine Officer's College, or AMOC, in Vancouver. Father and mother were pleased, I was the most pleased, and, without hesitation, I accepted.

A few months passed and there I was, kitted in standard issue _everything_ (AMOC was a college by name, but military in nature), dress blues well pressed and boots tightly laced together, standing alongside my cohort – the class of 2176 – listening to some fat old paper pusher Commander I-forget give us a speech about I-forget, all the while we burnt to a crisp under the midday summertime sun. After the speech finally ended, we were dismissed and off to our dormitories, which at AMOC equated to a block of large rooms filled with forty or so bunkbeds each. We filed in through the narrow doorways one by one, claiming whatever bed was available (now it was _my_ _bunk_ ), and we changed out of our blues and into our urban camouflage combat uniforms, men and women alike - we were neither male nor female now, merely pseudo-marines with P's and V's (Little Johnnie red faced over his Little Johnnie).

The girl changing beside me (she'd claimed the bunk above mine), lithe with shortcut auburn hair and alabaster skin, I couldn't help but peek at – pretty girl. All I received in return was a sideways glare, and, unable to meet her emerald greens, I scampered away and out toward the training grounds.

The regiment was gruelling, to say the least, but easily manageable – a pleasant surprise. I conquered the obstacles easily, blowing my classmates away. Crawl here, climb there, leap across the tiny 'big gap'. The biggest surprise of all, however, was that I was not alone in looking back on my struggling colleagues from the finish line – the girl from before, beating me by a full half second.

"Nicely done," I offered, feeling a little light headed and out of breath, but refusing to wheeze – how could I, when she was standing so coolly, arms akimbo with only a single bead of sweat rolling down her temple and cheek.

This time around I received a beam in return, wide and bright. It was only then that I noticed the freckles peppered across her face.

Somewhat disarmed and yet unafraid (that is, feeling less exposed), I stuck out my hand. "Shepard."

She took it and shook it. "Fritter. Jane Fritter."

Next up was introductory arms training, and she beat me by a hair's width once more. I raised a brow in Fritter's direction after her fifth bullseye with the Reaper rifle, right in the dummy's head. Beaming again (or was it a teasing smirk), "My dad taught me. He was a shooter," was all she allowed, and for a moment a dark shadow crossed her face. I pretended not to notice and returned to my own shooting.

Then there were the aptitude tests, used to divvy up the cohort into different classes for each subject according to skill and ability. She beat me in all but _one_ module of _one_ branch of study, computer science and computer engineering (two very separate fields) of 'Mathematics & Science', but she was a close second even in that, all the while receiving top marks for _every_ other thing.

By the time the program for the day had ended, everyone was noticing the class star too (not me – no one cares for second place). She was not only technically talented, but she was sociable – _of course she was_ – befriending all those around her immediately, knowing exactly the thing to say, at exactly the right time, to each and every person. I was, meanwhile, making my way toward the college bar, alone (but not lonely, I reminded myself).


End file.
